That Sidle Scent
by Lizzy Sidle
Summary: Greg's attempt at furthering his relationship with the one person he feels could save him fails. But despite her rejection, Sara begins to wonder if Grissom is truly what she needed and if Greg is the one to fill that void. Character Death. Sandle.
1. Part I

Disclaimer: I own no CSI. It is all property of Jerry Bruckheimer, CBS, etc. Nor do I own the song "Iris" by the Goo Goo Dolls.

**Notes: **This story is coming out in three parts, and after those, an epilogue is likely. There is also a character death, and it includes spoilers from Season 7. Happy reading!

* * *

**That Sidle Scent**

**A CSI Fanfiction by Lizzy Sidle**

_As memories of his attack haunt him, Greg takes a leap of faith towards furthering his relationship with the one person he feels could help. After rejecting him, Sara begins to doubt that Grissom (whom she wanted, and now has) is truly what she needed, and if Greg is the one to fill that void._

_"_Smell is a potent wizard who transports you across thousands of miles and all the years you have lived."

_--Helen Keller_

**Part I**

_Bitter laughing pelted his mind in unison with the blows—fists, feet, purses and rocks, each leaving their own mark on him as he tried to make sense of what had happened. Nothing registered but the pain. All that pain, in every bone, on every fraction of skin, exploding all over. The blows stopped, but the laughter lived on…and on…and on…and the repercussions of pain echoed across his entire body, throbbing in unison with the laughs._

Greg's eyes opened, and he found himself to be in his own apartment, in his own bedroom, in his own bed. His breathing was heavy, but he found himself unable move. The right side of his face pressed into his pillow, the rest of his body tangled in his cotton sheets. Sweat beaded his face, and as Greg gained some control of his paralyzing fear, he took the liberty of wiping the sweat away. He sat up, setting his elbows on his knees and putting his face in his hands, troubled to find he was shaking.

These nightmares had been popping up for weeks, sometimes varied, but always making the same general point—they laughed at him while he lay on the ground, like he was nothing more than dirt. Just dirt. His body still ached, not from those bruises, but from the memories. He could imagine the sting as if it were yesterday, how it felt to have every limb aching, every inch of skin screaming, every bone shooting lightening bolts through his senses.

A shiver ran through him, and he decidedly stood up, heading for his bathroom across the hall. With a flick of the light switch, he spotted himself in the mirror. His hair lay across his head, flattened and moistened from sweat. The same was true for his grey tank top. He turned on the faucet and splashed cold water on his face, trying to bring some sort of life back to his senses. His tank came off, and he tossed it in the hamper against the wall behind him. A scar on the left side of his chest glared at him through the mirror, and he brushed a tender finger across it, swearing he could feel the healed wound sting. It was grey now, and he knew that with time it would turn shiny, never to fade.

His breathing was still rather strained, and he knew he needed to regain control. So he did what he'd been doing for the past few weeks when he found himself in the same situation. Smell, after all, had the closest link to memory—Sara's smell. The memory of some familiar presence beside him, her gentle fingers softly supporting his own seemed to lessen the eruptions of pain in his hands. Her cool, delicate hand brushing gingerly through his hair melted away the sting. And her voice echoing in his ears let him know he was more than dirt. He was way more than dirt. He was higher than clouds.

So it wasn't in a twisted, sexual way he imagined her scent. It was his drug. That smell brought back those feelings of calm, the easing of pain. It was a soft sweetness nearly beyond words, hinting of citrus mixed with the bittersweet, thick smell of an unnamed soap. Words didn't cut it. It was a description all on its own—the Sidle Scent.

He'd thought about it for some time. Was it wrong to think of her in that way? Before the attack, maybe, when he was still in the lab and acted like the overly confident nerd falling for Homecoming Queen. He'd obsessively made a mental note of it then, as if it were all just a joke, just another crush. It wasn't that way anymore. He'd give up almost anything to have the smell around him whenever he needed it. His drug.

He went back to his room, pulling the blinds up to let in the streaks of sunlight. It was 1:00 in the afternoon. Nick, Sara, and he had planned on lunch together at around 2:00, and Greg was looking forward to it. He wouldn't need to imagine her presence that way. He dressed himself quickly, in a black tee and jacket with a pair of slightly baggy jeans. Then after a quick run back to the bathroom, some finger-fulls of hair-gel, a brush of his teeth, and another deep breath, he headed off.

* * *

Greg entered the diner to the familiar jingling bell and glanced around. He could only smell eggs, bacon, coffee, smoke from the smoking section, and anything but what he'd truly come for. He was looking for her face and spotted her sitting alone in the far corner of the diner, waving him over. 

"Hey Greg!" Sara greeted brightly, smiling as he neared the table.

He grinned back, seating himself across from her. For once, he was quiet. Worse, disappointed. The diner was blanketing any chance he had at even getting a whiff. He was only a tabletop away, and the only thing he could smell was the food. He tried to stay smiling, but failed, and turned his head towards the window.

"Are you alright?" she questioned quietly, her hands folded under her chin.

Moving over to sit by her would be too conspicuous. He would have to wait until they'd finished, and maybe she wouldn't mind him walking her out. "I'm fine," he said finally. "Just thinking…"

Her eyes narrowed slightly, as if she were activating some sort of inner x-ray vision. "The civil case?" she asked, practically stating it as fact.

"It's over," Greg said through a sigh. "I'm not getting sued, but…I can't stop thinking about it."

"Can I help?" she offered quietly.

Yeah, tell me what shampoo you use, he thought with a mental chuckle. But what could he say? She'd already done more than he could have ever asked. She'd come to him before anyone else, stopped over right after Grissom came in, and visited him a third time with Nick and Warrick trailing behind — toting Mexican food to boot. She'd stuck up for him, lied for him, when the others had forgotten what was going on in his head. Now here she was, wondering what else she could do to help.

"Sara, I…" Stop. Think. Don't say anything stupid. "I wanted to…to _thank_ you," he managed. "You've already done too much. I couldn't ask you to do more."

She grinned softly, though her eyes seemed sad. With a sigh, she reached across the table, giving one of his hands a quick squeeze. "What's bothering you, Greg?" Her eyes looked into his, and she determinedly held his gaze.

"Demetrius' brother…" he said softly, with a bit of hesitation.

"Are you worried he's going to take things into his own hands?" Sara asked matter-of-factly as she pulled her hand back and placed it under her chin once more. Her eyes remained fixed on his.

He nodded uncertainly, but that was only the half of it. He would have told her, but he heard the little jingle of the diner door being opened and felt Nick's presence as he sauntered over and seated himself beside Greg. The Texan greeted them with a nod and grin. They returned it pleasantly, and Greg sighed at the loss of his chance.

A waitress finally came and took their orders, and when she turned to fill them, they were left to speak amongst themselves. Greg listened in only halfheartedly as Nick and Sara talked and joked. If he was spoken to, he would give short answers. If he wasn't spoken to, he said nothing. He'd lost his chance to get everything off his chest. How he felt about killing a man. How he felt about looking over his shoulder every five minutes. How he felt about his nightmares. How he felt about _her_. When their order came, the silence thickened, and he couldn't help but notice Sara casting him worried glances.

"…and anyway what other reason would he shave his beard for?" Nick pointed out after taking a bite of his tuna sandwich. He and Sara had been engaged in a long-winded discussion on Grissom's sudden changes in appearance. Nick was convinced he was seeing somebody. Sara had other ideas.

"Oh, I don't know. What reason could there possibly be for you growing that 70s porno-mustache?" Sara retorted with a snigger.

Nick shifted in his seat, letting out an exasperated sigh. "Well I don't really care what you say, Sara. I think Griss has a girlfriend, and I'm going to find out for sure, tonight's shift."

"Don't bother," Sara commanded. "He won't tell you."

"Oh, have you_ tried?_ It can't do any harm to ask. And, for your information, I grew that mustache because I wanted to try something _new._ And it was _not _a70s porno-mustache." He set his share of the bill on the table and got up to leave, assuring the two of them he would see them at work.

"Are you sure you're gonna be okay?" Sara asked as she filled out the bill. "You're awfully quiet."

Greg reassured her he was, and they both got up to leave. He stood closer than he probably should have, hovering so close, they nearly touched. She didn't seem to notice as she opened the door and the two of them walked out together. The smell filled his nostrils with a small gust of wind and he suddenly realized he wasn't thinking as he normally would. She turned and grinned at him and asked him a question that he didn't even hear through his mental haze.

"Greg?" she said, her face turning to slight concern again.

"Huh?" he replied stupidly.

"I asked you if you wanted a ride home…you still seem a little out of it."

"Oh…uhh, no thanks…I'm good."

His mind was still operating on its own. Without thinking he decided to walk her all the way to her car, something he'd never done before. He still hovered, and he continued breathing in the citrus sweet smell. He needed it. What was he _thinking?_ _Why_ was he doing this? But his body just seemed to be moving on its own, his mouth speaking on its own.

"Greg, if there's something you want to talk about, tell me now, alright?" she said as they reached her vehicle. "Remember, anytime you wanna talk. Don't think I took you for granted when you were there to listen to me." She comforted him with a smile, one hand on the driver's side handle as she stood there waiting for him to speak.

Just say it. You're thinking it. Just say it. You've been thinking it ever since you stepped out of that diner.

"Sara…" He took another deep breath. He was being so stupid, acting ridiculous, but she was like a drug, and he was addicted to that _smell_. He'd do anything. "Would you…would you like to have dinner w-with me tonight, before work, at Valentinos?" Definitely not his most graceful date request ever.

She didn't move. She didn't blink. She just stood there. "Greg, I can't—"

"Tomorrow maybe? Friday? Any time you're available," he blurted, and that was just the start of the waterfall of words. "I mean, Sara, I know I tried this before, years ago, and it didn't work out, but I'm different, right? And I know you know because you treat me different than you used to and when I flirt with you, you just smile instead of blowing it off or rolling your eyes and you have absolutely no idea how much I've thought about you since the day you came to see me. You were the _first one_ there, and I've thought about it for weeks, and I think this is…this is…what I want…"

He took a gulp of air and began to rock slowly back and forth, wringing his hands as he waited for Sara's response. She continued staring at him, though she wasn't smiling at all. In fact, her eyes were glistening as if she were about to cry.

"Greg, I'm sorry," she said, nearly as a whisper. With a sigh she turned around and entered her car, slamming the door shut and starting it up.

"Wait! _Wait!_" he nearly shouted, scrambling over to her window. She looked at him and he gestured for her to roll the glass down, which she did. "Why not?" he asked her breathlessly. "What's _wrong_ with me?"

"Greg, I'm already in a relationship, I'm sorry."

A low blow. His whole body seemed to deflate. "_Who?_ Who's better than me _this_ time?"

She stared him directly in the eye, and he could see she was thinking. Thinking whether to tell him or not. She took a breath in, as if she was going to, but then she let it out. Another breath, another attempt. Another failure. Finally, she muttered the one damning name as she rolled up the window. "Grissom…"

An even lower blow. Her whisper was the silence before the tornado that was his head, spinning around and around as he watched her drive off. His knees gave out, and he dropped down onto the curb as she sped off onto the highway. There was no Sidle Scent to comfort him while he sat there alone…he could only smell the exhaust of her car.

* * *

_And I'd give up forever to touch you_

'_Cause I know that you feel me somehow _

_You're the closest to heaven that I'll ever be _

_And I don't want to go home right now _

_And all I can taste is this moment _

_And all I can breathe is your life_

_And sooner or later it's over _

_I just don't wanna miss you tonight _

_And I don't want the world to see me _

'_Cause I don't think that they'd understand _

_When everything's meant to be broken _

_I just want you to know who I am

* * *

_


	2. Part II

**Part II**

"_When you get what you want but not what you need…"_

--Fix You, by Cold Play

A week had passed. Sara had stood back and observed him silently. Watching. What she saw hurt her nearly as much as rejection had to be hurting him. The blank look in his eyes when Grissom would talk to him, when _she_ would talk to him. He seemed so distant, more so than he had been even in the days after his attack. She'd enter a room, and once he saw it was her, he would leave. Grissom would ask him a question. He would reply curtly, and he would leave.

Sara sat alone in the breakroom, a warm mug of coffee cupped between her hands. It was incomprehensible, the way she was affecting him. Why would he choose to be this upset over _her_ of all people? She'd never done anything except deny him what he wanted, which was apparently herself. Nothing she'd done for him should make him act this way. Or maybe she was just blind.

Looking into her swirling mug of Greg's own Blue Hawaiian, she tried to recall the moments in their relationship. The earliest consisted of him flirting with her _all the time_. Making small talk. Giving compliments. Saying hello whenever they were in the same room. She'd blown him off or rolled her eyes every time—he was right about that. And he was also right about her treating him differently now. Once he'd stopped chasing her and focused his energy on getting into the field, she could stop playing impossible-to-get. She didn't 'play' anything anymore. She'd _thought_ they'd reached a silent agreement—that they were friends. Nearly best friends, true, but that was all. It seemed that aspect was only understood on her part…

As she sipped more coffee, she continued traveling the mental timeline. They'd hugged, celebrated, laughed, and talked. Nothing at all to indicate she was interested in pursuing the relationship any further. Why had he changed? Or had he never really changed, but simply placed her on the back burner while he went after his career? But then what had spurred his recent invitation? She was getting a headache from it all, but it was a puzzle she couldn't help coming back to.

It seemed obvious to her it had something to do with his attack. He was probably just trying to find somebody to lean on. But she'd given that to him, hadn't she? She'd been there as his friend. Shouldn't that be enough? Why did he want more? She'd done all she could think of, asked him if there was more she could possibly do, and he threw _this_ out there. Why was a romantic relationship so important to him? What huge thing could it offer that a friendly one couldn't? He didn't _seem_ like the sex fiend type…

Another sip and Grissom entered the room. She looked up suddenly, and when she saw who it was, gave him a faint smile. The older man gave a quiet greeting, gently squeezing her shoulder as he passed. He brushed over to the counter and began to pour his own cup of coffee.

"Nick's just finished asking me for the third time tonight whom I'm dating," Grissom said, shrugging his eyebrows as he sat down across the table. "Because I shaved my beard."

Sara just watched him over the rim of her mug. "I liked the beard…" she replied softly before taking the dark brown liquid into her mouth again.

"I know, Sara. We've discussed this."

There was silence as she took another drink. She was still thinking, running those questions around and around in her head. _Why_ was she so special to Greg?

"I'm, uh…free this weekend," Grissom began nervously. "And I've got a couple tickets to the Arthouse Theater…if you felt like going."

"No thanks…" she said quietly, distractedly.

He narrowed his eyes a little. Apparently her answer had surprised him. "Sara, are you alright?"

She said nothing, staring blankly into her mug, catching the warm steam on her face and breathing in the savory smell. Silence enveloped them for nearly five minutes. Greg needed her, and she couldn't understand it. But _she_ needed _Grissom_, or at least…wanted him. She'd wanted him so long she'd forgotten how it even started. The insecurity she'd felt around him had never faded either. It was like Christmas. The best part is the wait leading up to all the fun. Once that fun is gone, it all fades away…and she was beginning to see what was left.

It seemed he _cared_ for her, of course. But it couldn't be compared to anything more than a close father-daughter relationship. They'd watch movies, sitting together on the couch with his arm across her shoulders. Hugs were brief, kisses non-existent. Intelligent conversations, yes, one of the things that had drawn her to him. Going places, sometimes. Invitations like going to the Arthouse Theater came far and in between. The man hardly even knew how to _flirt!_ The closest he came was calling her _dear_ or bringing her something.

Her own flirty advances were brushed off with a raised eyebrow, leaving her feeling dumb and embarrassed. The satisfaction of what she'd chased for years was _there_, but not nearly as sweet as she'd expected. He had all the control, whether either of them wanted it that way. She was the one who needed him. He didn't need her, or at least, if he did, he wasn't showing it very well.

Sara finally spoke up again, quietly and contemplatively. "Grissom...?" She couldn't even bring herself to call him by his first name…

"Yes?" He perked up ever-so-slightly.

"What would you have done if I had said no to you?"

His face twisted slightly in confusion. "What are you—"

"When you asked me to go with you after shift all those months ago," she began, making each word clear. "What would you have done if I had said no?"

He paused. Staring. Thinking. "I'm not sure what you're asking, entirely. My _reaction_?"

Sighing, Sara muttered, "Never mind…it doesn't matter. I'm thinking too hard."

Grissom stayed for a little while longer, they chatted, he grabbed some coffee, and then he left. Alone again. And she inadvertently found herself absorbed in her own thoughts. About Greg. About Grissom. She couldn't bear watching Greg walk around like the zombie he was now, but she could never give Grissom away just like that. She'd come too far with him, waited too long to just drop everything, despite how unhappy she'd ended up. Had she expected him to change after they labeled themselves as a couple? Had she hoped to change him when he'd been stuck in his ways for years?

_Greg_ had changed on his own. For himself, in pursuit of his goal. He'd become more serious, more mature. He'd strived hard to change his organizational skills and professionalism. Whether it was entirely for his career, or for her, she was unsure. Every laugh and smile and hug they'd shared had fallen into doubt, because now she didn't know what he'd interpreted as friends and what he'd interpreted as flirting.

She thought of the moment she'd found out he'd been attacked. How her stomach had turned inside out and upside down in fear. Was he okay? Would he going to be _alright_? One look at his beaten form and she'd been on the brink of tears. She'd held his hand and ran her fingers through his hair, assuring herself he was still there and was going to be okay, and assuring _him_ that someone was there, letting him know he wasn't alone. As friends. Had she proved too much? Had he misinterpreted her actions?

Whatever the reason he'd changed, her rejection had crushed him. _She'd_ crushed him. She'd crushed him so badly he wouldn't even look her in the eye, talk to her anymore than was necessary to get his paycheck. He needed her, but she was so _baffled_. _Why?_ Why _her? _She was used to needing others, used to not being needed herself. Feeling important, _wanted,_ seemed so foreign. She had to know. She couldn't watch the zombie anymore.

* * *

Greg headed out into the parking lot, his shoulders hunched up to his ears as he crossed through the cool air of the early morning. His breaths crystallized in the air before him, an icy mist that dissipated into the darkness. He sauntered across the asphalt, not eager to be going home, but eager to be leaving. Being around her was like setting a beer in front of a recovering alcoholic. He may have seemed cold this past week, but it was his only way of preserving himself and keeping her happy. If she wanted Grissom, she could have him, and he wasn't going to apply pressure to their relationship by being around her anymore than necessary.

So what if he wouldn't get that smell anymore. So what if he woke up every night in a cold sweat, so nauseous and dizzy he was on the brink of losing it. So what if the memory of her presence that he greedily remembered in comfort also brought him nearly to tears. So what. So what, so what, so what. He would get through it somehow. If it meant he lost her through everything…so be it. It was obviously meant to be this way. Seven years working with each other, and nothing had happened. Things must be engraved as such in God's little book.

He entered his car with a sigh, sticking the key in the ignition about to start it before—

"Don't move," came a mildly familiar voice.

Greg turned to the passenger seat and saw a large dark form that made his heart jump straight into his throat. Demetrius James' brother was seated mere inches from him, glaring threateningly. With a nervous gulp and his head spinning, Greg lifted his hands away from the steering wheel. He could see no weapon, but that didn't mean anything.

"We shoulda got sumtin' from you, _killer_," the man spat.

"What do you want?" Greg managed in one forced breath. His heart was racing and he couldn't even bring himself to look Aaron in the eye. It brought back the guilt, and he was scared. There was no use denying. His stomach was turning in impossible shapes, squirming and squishing with tumultuous butterflies. Why call them butterflies when the feeling was associated with something so horrible? It felt more like hornets in there, stirring up all kinds of nerves.

"I want what my brother _deserves_, what me and my mother _deserve_," Aaron said in a heated whisper.

"Are you going to kill me?" Greg asked breathlessly and taking in another gulp of air. The man still hadn't pulled a weapon.

"No. Naw," Aaron muttered, staring at him, the whites of his eyes clashing frighteningly with the darkness of his skin. "My mom and I want the 25 grand we had asked for, and we _should _have gotten…we deserve justice just as much as you law enforcement _pigs._"

"I don't have that kind of money," Greg replied, weighing each word before he spoke. "I can't help you that way, I'm sorry." Another forced breath. "I'm sorry."

Aaron James shook his head, his thick lips pursed tightly. "That don't cut it, killer. If you can't give us that, you're gonna have to give us sumtin' else. You _killed_ my brother."

"I didn't _mean_—"

A shooting pain suddenly filled the right side of his head, stars blinking in front of his eyes. A warm trickle of liquid dripped down across his upper lip leading from his nose. He brought his hands to his face and tasted the blood leaking into the back of his throat. Aaron had punched him, with absolutely no warning. The grey, sparkling stars faded, and when he could see clearly, the other man was gone. Long gone.

* * *

_And you can't fight the tears that ain't coming_

_Or the moment of truth in your lies_

_When everything feels like the movies_

_Yeah, you bleed just to know you're alive_

_And I don't want the world to see me_

_Cause I don't think that they'd understand _

_When everything's meant to be broken _

_I just want you to know who I am

* * *

_


	3. Part III

**Part III**

"_Love is everything it's cracked up to be…It really is worth fighting for, being brave for, risking everything for."_

—_Erica Jong_

He stared himself down in the mirror, the bottom of his right eye darkened from Aaron's blow, crusted blood around the end of his nose. It didn't seem to be broken, but it was _definitely _sore. He'd taken some aspirin for a headache, and _really_ hoped it kicked in soon. After washing the blood from his face, Greg swapped a clean t-shirt for his bloody one, taking a final glance at himself before heading into the main room and flopping down on the couch. When he'd first arrived home, he'd locked the door, put a pizza in the oven, paced some, turned on a football game, and even picked up his dirty clothes from the floor in an attempt to calm his nerves. It hadn't worked.

It took constant mental reminders to keep him at ease. Aaron James was gone. He was probably miles away, and even if he wasn't, the door was locked, so he was safe. Just keep saying it. _You are safe._ Greg forcibly concentrated his energy on the game, watching the ball be passed back and forth and listening to the excitement of the crowd. The teams that were playing didn't even register in his mind. He was too distracted and too tired. He just wanted to sleep…

A sharp knock woke him. He shot upright from where he was laying, both eyes on the door and his breath catching in his throat.

"Greg?"

Sara. A huge sigh escaped him as he lay back down. It wasn't Aaron. He could relax, though there was _no_ way he was opening the door. Yet she kept knocking, and it was becoming harder and harder to block out the noise.

"Greg, I know you're there!" she shouted, sounding despairingly frustrated. "I can smell burnt pizza!"

His eyes opened abruptly and he sniffed the air. Definitely burning pizza. Once again, he shot out of his seat, cursing under his breath as he dashed for the smoking kitchen. Coughing from the haze filling the room, Greg swiped a hot pad from the counter. He pulled the pizza out, cheese boiling, crust blackened and dry as charcoal. He set it on top of the oven and waved the smoke around, opening windows for the room to air out.

After he'd settled things, Sara knocked again, more urgently this time. "Greg, please. I want to talk to you."

He grudgingly shuffled over to the door, still mentally debating his actions. Everything from the past week told him he _shouldn't_. It told him not to open the door. _Don't open the door. _Yet it was his hand that reached out to the lock. It was his hand turning the handle as well. His hand pulling the door back.

Only briefly did their eyes meet, before Greg looked straight to the floor. She'd been smiling, but one glimpse of his face and it faded.

"What happened to your eye?" she questioned with slight alarm, raising a concerned eyebrow.

"I…I hit it on a cupboard door…" he said quietly, eyes still averted. "You wanted to talk?" He chanced a quick moment of eye contact before yet again looking away, over her shoulder this time.

She narrowed her eyes as if examining him, observing like a piece of evidence. "Can I come in?" It was nearly a whisper. "Enough burnt pizza for the two of us?" The sides of her mouth just barely turned up.

His mind was telling him not to listen. She has Grissom. Don't do anything to jeopardize that for her. Tell her to go home. There was no need to talk, because there was nothing to say. Another voice spoke. She's come here on her own, without invitation. There's something she wants to say, so let her say it.

Giving in to reason, Greg stepped aside with a sigh. The space between them closed as she passed by, just enough for him to get _it_. The smell. That thick sweet smell passing just below his nostrils.

Once inside, she simply stood in the middle of the living room, looking lost. Her jacket was folded in half over her crossed arms, her hair tucked behind her ears. She timidly glanced around the room, her uncertainty evident by her expression. With a quiet mumble, Greg took her jacket from her and set it over the back of the couch, gesturing for her to sit. She still seemed hesitant in her actions.

Greg cleared his throat. "Can I get you anything?" He meandered over to the kitchen, the smoke drifting out the window. "Milk, water, beer…I don't know…I think I might have some orange juice left…"

"Water is fine, Greg. Thank you," she replied softly, crossing her legs and setting her hands across them. He handed her the glass of ice water and sat down on the opposite side of the sofa, quite unsure how to proceed. She obviously wanted to talk about something, but should he be the one to initiate conversation? And if so, then what would he say? There wasn't really too much that—

"Greg, I'm sorry," she suddenly said, interrupting his train of thought. "I don't know what you want me to do." The ice clinked around against the glass and she gazed down at them.

He stared at her. There was what he _wanted_ her to do, and then there was what she _should_ do, for both their sakes. "Nothing," Greg replied finally, deciding to go with the latter. "You can't do anything more than what you have for me. If Grissom makes you happy, and he's what you want, then I'm not going to interfere." He'd told himself the same thing for seven days…

She didn't move, only stared into her glass. She hadn't even taken a sip. Something panged in the back of his mind as he continued watching her. He knew that stare. She was thinking. Hard, by the looks of it. He let out a heavy sigh.

"Why are you avoiding me?" she questioned, furrowing her eyebrows as she continued examining the ice cubes floating around. "Are you _angry_ with me?"

He shook his head in response. "Sara, I just don't want to be a problem."

Her eyes shot to his and she glared, keeping eye contact for the first time their whole visit. "You're not."

"W-Well, not yet," he stammered, faltering under her stare. "And you know how things are…after you find out that the person you want doesn't want you back. You really don't feel like being around them much. Self-preservation and all that." He shrugged innocently.

"I don't understand why you're so fixed on _me_," she muttered heatedly, her eyes shooting back to her glass, as if she were upset with him for it. "I'm not that special. Can't you go find somebody else?"

Jeez. What did he say to _that _without losing all dignity? I think you smell pretty?

"Why you?" he said out of surprise. "_Why_?"

"Yes," Sara said shortly. "I want to know why."

"It's…kinda hard to explain," he mumbled, rubbing the back of his neck. "I just…oh come on, I need a reason?"

"Then why can't we just be _friends_?" she asked, becoming slightly more emotional.. "I'm happy being _friends_ with you. What difference could the kind of relationship you're asking for _make?_"

Greg deflated with a sigh, gazing pitifully at her. If there ever were a time…

"Sara, I just want to be closer to you," he said finally, looking sideways. "I want to be able to sit _right_ next to you without getting a raised eyebrow. When you get upset, I want to be able to know _I _was the one who made you feel better. You…you made me feel safe that day, and I haven't felt that way since. I want to feel safe all the time. I…and I want to make it up to you by making _you_ feel safe all the time."

Bolstering courage, Greg raised his eyes to her again, searching for her reaction. It was one of sadness—eyebrows creased, mouth upturned, eyes softened and glistening.

"I don't want to see you act like this anymore, Greg," she said as two large tears dripped down her cheek. "But you know I can't leave Grissom. I _can't_ just up-and-leave him."

This is what he'd been afraid of. The very last thing he wanted was for her to feel pressured. Just because he was laying it all out didn't mean he wanted her to say yes. He knew it would be out of pity, not desire. God, he hadn't even _invited_ her here. He barely even _wanted_ her here because this is what he _knew_ would happenSelf-sacrifice was a part of her personality. He was of half a mind to tell her to leave, but she interrupted with another whisper.

"Greg," she said softly as the tears slowed. "I'm gonna give you one night."

He raised an eyebrow, confused. "One night? To do what?"

"To be _close _to me…" she said, almost sarcastically. "Greg I can't stand watching you so depressed. I'm giving you one night to have your way, but then you _have_ to move on. You know I can't stay stuck like this." Her eyes were watering, but she seemed determined.

He stared back at her, dumbstruck. _One night_. It was one morning, really, but still. To have the smell, to have her. For hours. It was a sacrifice, he knew, but one she was making for him. Mindless, he inched closer, those hornets buzzing in his stomach as he slowly eased himself towards her. She'd set her water on the coffee table and was watching him as he moved nearer. Just watching. His hand reached out and settled on hers. Another tear leaked, and he knew the mental debate in her own head was probably ten times the storm in his own, no matter how surely she held his gaze.

He let his hand slide back to the cushion when he noticed how tense she was. What did she think he was going to do? Sighing, Greg scooted closer still, until their hips were practically touching. He snaked his arm across her shoulders and squeezed as gently as possible. She was tense, _very _tense, as if he were something to be feared. It was then he decided. If he took this _one night_, it would be about her, not just his own selfish needs. If she was giving up herself, he could take a step back and keep limitations. This would be about being with her. Alone and together, if only for one morning.

* * *

It was nearly 9:00, and Greg still hadn't fallen asleep. Sara, however, had. And he was too busy relishing that simple fact to follow suit. The way she molded perfectly to him there on the sofa, his arm across her shoulders, and her head against his chest. Her scent, drifting like a steady flow of endorphins to his brain.

They'd watched a movie and opted for 24-hour delivery over the burnt pizza. Sara had picked out some flick he'd kept in the very back of his DVD library, saved for moments like these. She'd eased up with time, and so had he. He teased the film all the way through, making her laugh and laugh even in the most serious scenes. Eventually she'd begun sinking into him; first with her head resting on his arm, then his shoulder, and finally to his chest as she fell asleep. And here they were.

Aaron James was a distant memory. Those bruises and scars seemed to hurt less already. Guilt? A foreign language. He looked down at her while _she_ slept, yet _he_ hadn't felt any safer in his whole life. His thumb brushed absentmindedly against her shoulder, and she barely stirred. Her trust in him was numbing. Her even being here, curled up beneath his arm was amazing. Like a dream.

The tips of his mouth turned up in a grin he couldn't suppress as he brushed a lock of hair from her face, a whole wave of her scent flowing up with it. It made him want to jump up and down, be silly, be crazy, and act like a total idiot. It freed him. She freed him. If only for this morning.

He rubbed his hand up and down her back, submerging himself in the moment as he felt the softness of her cotton brown shirt. One morning. One year. There didn't seem to be a difference. Suddenly she sighed and stretched beneath his arm, causing him to cease. With a yawn, she settled down against him again.

"Good morning," she said to him quietly, clearing her throat and sighing.

He patted her back once and replied with the same, grinning down at her. With a stretch, she sat up, still pressed next to him, her head leaning on his shoulder and her left arm across his stomach.

"Did you sleep at all?" she questioned through another yawn, rubbing her eyes.

"That movie gave me nightmares," he quipped, and she chuckled softly.

"Funny, because if I remember correctly you were making fun of the whole thing all the way through," she said. With an almost catlike stretch, she softly asked, "Where's the bathroom?"

He pointed down the hallway behind them, and she slipped from beneath his arm. Greg settled down on the couch as she walked away, warm and happy, a better buzz impossible to find anywhere. A grin on his face he couldn't get rid of. Too bad it was nearly over. When it was over, things would go back to as 'normal' as possible. Him 'forgetting' how she made him feel, and her going back to Grissom, for who knew how long. It was a sobering thought, but it was one he wanted to suppress as long as possible.

A few minutes later, and he heard a doorknob click. Still grinning as he had all night long, he waited for her to come back in the room, wondering if she was going to leave right away or stay just a little longer. The latter would be nice, of course…but then Greg heard another kind of click. Multiple clicks, quick and short, and horribly familiar.

He opened his eyes, breaking out of his euphoric trance instantly as he spotted Aaron James standing in his living room, gun pointed, dark and menacing, straight at Greg.

"Don't say a word, killer," Aaron threatened, keeping the gun steady though his voice was shaking. "I told you…I told you you'd have to give us something else. And I can't think of anything more satisfying than this." The man's face screwed up as he held back a sob.

Greg's tongue seemed to be plastered to the roof of his mouth, his heart jammed in his throat. He couldn't get a word out. He was dizzy, and sweating, and absolutely terrified. How had he gotten in here? Hadn't he locked the door? A staggering realization hit him. He hadn't locked the door after Sara had walked in—simply closed it. Wide open for Aaron to walk right in.

The gun shook in place, Aaron not firing. He was sweating, and tears were running down his cheeks, but he wouldn't fire.

"A-Aaron…" Greg finally stuttered, slowly standing up with his hands raised. "Put the gun down."

He shook his head menacingly, trying to compose himself, trying to keep the gun from shaking. "I can't," the man replied. "You killed my _brother! _You killed Demetrius!_"_

In the distance, Greg heard a toilet flush and a faucet begin to run. _Sara_. Before he knew it, Greg was shaking as well, silently willing her to stay. Stay behind the door. Don't come out. _Don't let him know that you're here_.

"Who is that?" the man questioned frantically, looking around the room for a hint. "That your girlfriend in there?" he asked, voice cracking as he nodded at the jacket on the sofa and shoes on the floor.

Greg shook his head, hands still raised in front of him, forcing himself to breathe. How could he have been so stupid? Was he really that incapacitated when it came to her? He couldn't even remember to lock his door against a man who'd threatened him? Greg was still willing her to stay. Don't come out. Snoop or something. _Just don't come out._ The doorknob clicked, and Greg almost fell to his knees when he heard her short scream. All the blood rushed to his head and he practically fainted. This had to be a dream…

"Get over here," Aaron commanded her, waving the gun briefly towards her. He was still sweating profusely, but the tears had _definitely_ stopped falling.

She staggered down the hallway, bracing herself on the wall as she glanced from Aaron to Greg and back again. Under Aaron's orders, she rested against the wall by the kitchen. Greg was halfway across the room, leaning on the couch to stay standing.

Again, Aaron raised the gun to Greg, but it kept shaking.

"_Don't_!" Sara shouted frantically. "Please, just put the gun down!" She began to cry silently.

Aaron spat back at her, and the two became absorbed in a quick shouting match. So many things rushed through Greg's head. Five minutes ago, he was happier than he'd ever been in his life. Now it was gone. The happiness was across the room, with tears leaking down her face as _he_ faced the barrel of a gun…

"You killed Demetrius!" Aaron shouted, turning back to Greg and crying again. "You should have gone to _jail_ but you _didn't_!We should have gotten that settlement but we _didn't! _We have to get something out of this!"

Greg braced himself. The entire memory of his attack fast-forwarded on a mental filmstrip in his head. The fear. The rock. The kill. The pain. All that pain. Everywhere. The smell. Her smell. Her words. The fading pain. The happiness. The fear and constant need. The rejection. A worse pain than anything. Walking around empty. A few hours alone, to sit closer and be happier than he'd ever been before. It was going to be gone soon. She was going back to Grissom later today. His happiness would be gone, just beyond his reach for as long as he stayed. So who cared anymore…bring on the pain.

He heard a yell, and he would have thought it was his own if he hadn't opened his eyes. Sara held the barrel of the gun tightly in her hands, fighting and struggling like a wildcat with Aaron James, prying away his fingers from the handle, kicking and scratching at any inch of him she could reach. His fingers were slowly bending backwards as she pulled on him, fighting so hard for control of the gun. They were on the ground, and she elbowed the man in the chest. She scrambled to stand, reaching across his body for the gun, but he enveloped her in large arms.

Too shocked to move, Greg could only watch as the two of them scrambled on the floor. He could only yell her name, yell for her stop. But if she stopped, what then? It'd be her or him. If she didn't stop, it could be anybody.

She gave a yell, still holding the gun with both hands as she bit Aaron's forearm. He let out a roar of pain, and brought his other hand up to pull her hair, dragging her away. They were standing again, a mere battle of strength now. Sara bending backwards at the knees as he pushed her back with his armed fist, the one thing she was holding on to. The gun and his fist were pressing into her abdomen as she continued fighting, clawing, prying at his fingers.

Greg saw. It barely registered in his mind. He knew what was going to happen before he could even react. As one foot rose to dash forward, an explosion filled the entire apartment, crashing against his eardrums. A scream shortly followed and time hung in midair. The battle of strength ended, with _her_ collapsed on the living room floor writhing in agony as she clutched a bleeding hole on the left side of her stomach.

Greg shot forward, kneeling beside her in an already gathering pool of crimson his hands pressed on her shoulders, trying to keep her from squirming. Aaron dropped the gun on the ground, where it clunked, shocked at his own deed. As if he hadn't really thought about what it'd be like to shoot somebody.

Sara couldn't make a sound, only cry. Streams of tears from the pain washed down her face as she took in gasps of air. It took a minute for him to realize he was crying too, as he pushed her hands aside and pressed his own to her wound. The smell was overwhelming. A metallic cling, the sour taste you get when you've got a coin in your mouth. Nauseating and engulfing. He realized there was no use. The bullet was a through and through, blood pooling from her back as he applied pressure to her front.

"Sara," Greg squeaked as a tear shuddered at the end of his nose and dropped onto her, lost in the blood. "Sara, you're gonna be okay." Yet somehow, he couldn't believe what he was saying. Why had she tried fighting Aaron for the gun? It should have been him. It should have been _him._

Aaron was still stood there, staring at the two of them.

"You _idiot_!" Greg sobbed. "_Why?"_ He kept trying futilely to stop the blood flow. Trying so hard, but it wouldn't stop. There was no way to make it stop. Sirens blared in the very far distance. Neighbor, probably.

"I didn't—" Aaron began, shaking his head gently.

"_Don't even bother_!" Greg was nearly in hysterics as he pressed harder on the wound, trying to stop the bleeding. Sara let out a sharp gasp from the pressure and began to cry harder, the pain too fierce to do or say anything else. "I'm sorry," Greg sputtered. "Sara, it's alright, it's alright. Ambulance is coming, okay? You're gonna be okay."

He reached over to her head, setting his hand in her hair, trying to provide her with some comfort and doing the only thing that came to mind. She continued to cry through the pain, shuddering with every breath, gasping through the explosions. He knew how it felt, and he did what she'd done to provide him with his escape. He did his best to steady his hand, running his fingers through her hair, taking her hand in his own. Her grip was weak.

The sirens grew closer, but he knew they wouldn't get there in time. Her hand fell slack, her crying ceased, and Greg felt as if he'd imploded on himself. His hand settled at the base of her neck, and he pulled her upward, burying his face in her hair, taking her in, breathing her in for the last time. His tears dampened her as he choked on his sobs, gasping in his emotional agony. An agony worse than anything. All he'd wanted was to be close. To have her, the one person in this world who understood, who helped, who calmed and who alleviated all of his pain. He'd got his wish, his want. He _was_ close. Closer than he'd ever been. He had his need. Her smell. A sweet, mild aroma with only one connection—her, his drug—That Sidle Scent.

_**The End

* * *

**_

_And I don't want the world to see me  
Cause I don't think that they'd understand  
When everything's made to be broken  
I just want you to know who I am.  
I don't want the world to see me  
Cause I don't think that they'd understand  
When everything's made to be broken  
I just want you to know who I am  
I just want you to know who I am  
I just want you to know who I am  
I just want you to know who I am  
I just want you to know who I am_

_

* * *

_**A/N:** Okay, so I couldn't pick over it any longer. I know you all wanted this out there. I hope you enjoyed it. The inspiration came from a phone call with a friend, watching Fannysmackin' directly after, and then falling asleep to Iris. Tada! That Sidle Scent. I know, Sara died. I was kind of chuckling at you guys--don't kill Greg! Don't kill Greg! Well I wasn't planning on it. ;) Don't forget that there is an epilogue coming, and I really hope you stay tuned for that. There's more to this story.

Oh, and regarding the racist thing. I'm not, and I hope I didn't offend too many people. If I had created him as an original character, than yes, you would every right to bombard me. But as the show created him, I simply worked with what they gave me. Probably why I very carefully (by carefully, I mean hardly) described his appearance in this final part. I apologize, of course, for any hurt feelings.

AGAIN! THANK YOU ALL SO MUCH FOR READING!


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